


My heart beats in tune with your drum

by GreenPhoenix, iskra667



Category: Oz (TV), Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Creepy, Gen, M/M, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPhoenix/pseuds/GreenPhoenix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/pseuds/iskra667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Oz/Whiplash crossover. Vern Schillinger has a new identity as a music teacher. He meets a student and a twisted, familiar dynamic happens. Drabbles from the latest Oz drabble tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jesus

Jesus. He was free.  
New name, new identity courtesy of the fucking feds.  
Vern laughed.  
He’d spilled the beans on his foolish brethren and now he could start anew.  
Fletcher, they called him.  
He could get used to it.  
Exercise some lame-ass musician to greatness and get his rocks off.  
Instill some fucking discipline into the young generation.  
The new kid was nothing like Beecher, but he would do.  
He would do, and maybe with some persuasion he could be made to suck his cock.  
Prag, sweetpea, you have no idea what you’re in for..


	2. Fucking feds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! racist slur

He realized the joke was on him when he found himself in front of a bunch of niggers that he was supposed to teach. Fucking feds.

He laughed even less as he saw how easily he got into it. It had always been his dirty little secret. When he jerked off with his dumbass brothers and whispered _Lena_ as he came, they all assumed the fertile figure of some German starlet. What he heard was Lena Horne wailing how the sun left her sky when he walked away from their doomed romance for the good of his Cause.

Somehow Beecher had figured it out, probably caught him singing to himself in the shower. Tried to out him in front of the whole prison with his choice of song, the scheming bitch. The problem with fucking someone up the ass on a regular basis was they quickly picked up on your darkest secrets.

He'd have to be more careful with Squeaker. Or maybe not. He'd always loved flirting with danger.


	3. lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! hints of incest

Squeaker, readily calling him 'Sir'. Those wet eyes, lighting up from within at the slightest hint of praise. The tremor in the scrawny chest as Vern slapped him over and over again. The gift of this single tear. And him, coming back for more the next day, hands bruised and bloody, his whole existence laid out on the unforgiving altar of Vern's unattainable expectations. Vern's hand moved lightning-fast on his cock.

_Andrew_ , he moaned as he came. A moan most unbefitting to a proud Aryan soldier. But in the dead of night, safely away from prying eyes, Squeaker could be Andrew, just like Sweet Pea had been Tobias.

Andrew, just like his lost son. The same dark, earnest eyes. The same unruly dark hair, begging to be ruffled as his lips wrapped around Vern's cock. _Don't go there!_

Wincing, Vern went to wash his hands at the sink.


	4. Beecher

Beecher.  
He’d learned through his Aryans contacts that Beecher had been paroled and had set up a house with Keller.  
Of course.  
His prags were happy and domestic, and he couldn’t get to them for fear of exposure.  
It amused him to think of Keller playing househusband to Tobias, making him hot dinners and giving him sexual favors.  
Yeah.  
He knew what Keller’s tongue could do.  
Here he was, with no prag to do his duties.  
Well, that would change soon.  
He dreamed of Keller wearing an apron, and Beecher in drag, lipstick on his lips singing him a torch song.  
The new pupil would look pretty in a dress.


	5. Prags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Concentration camps reference

What the fuck was wrong with him and his prags? Why couldn't he keep to the basics, blowjobs on demand and a tight hole readily available to fuck? _You know why_ Heinrich ranted _You filthy faggot. They threw the likes of you in Buchenwald, let them starve and rot._

With Guenzel, he'd kept it together. Had been easy enough, the kid was dumb as a cow and mean as a tick. A disposable pair of holes. But all the others...

Keller. These lanky limbs, wrapping themselves around Vern with teenage flexibility as he whispered _Daddy_... The lopsided, self-deprecating smile...

Tobias, infuriating, irreplaceable Tobias. Bitterest regret in Vern's existence. Ungrateful, sour bitch never got how good he had it. Others would have rented him out, tested dodgy tits on him. Vern fought hammer and tongs to keep him clean, guarded him with jealously. Guenzel, he passed around without as much a a wince, but Tobias was precious, not to be spoiled by unworthy hands.

Even Winthrope had shown promise. Eager to please yet resourceful. Sadly taken from him before anything could come of it.

And now Andrew. Squeaker. Willingly bleeding for Vern as he threw him looks of pure hatred. Just like Tobias had.

Yep, he had it bad all right, and that wasn't good. Again.


	6. Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! racist slur.

Robson was dead.  
He’d heard through his usual sources.  
Oh well.  
The most loyal of all his prags, even though he wasn’t technically a prag.  
Dead from a disease Vern himself been spared from, thankfully.  
In the end James was tainted by the golliwog he let rape him, and the gums he’d acquired.  
Better for him to meet his maker than live.  
He’d shown so much promise, but he had failed in the end.  
They all did.  
The new prag would never be so destroyed, Vern would see to that.  
Tonight he was alone with his hand, and the kid was beating himself into shape in his place.  
They were linked through the beat of the music that never stopped playing in his head now.  
He beat off, and didn’t even think of Beecher.  
That was almost a victory in itself.


	7. Hand

The essence of love was liquid. Blood, tears, sperm, the barely dried ink on love letters, straight from your heart.

Blood was the spring from where it all started. Beecher's, barely released, instantly caking under the heat of his lighter. Then later, from within, taking days to heal, until routine made the well dry up. Andrew's, first shed in private like a penitent, still dripping stigmata laid out on Vern's altar on Monday morning.

Tears, slowly dripping, unconspicuous, until everything got irremediably sogged and you realised, too late, that there was no way back. Beecher's tears had been loud, dramatic, wracking sobs keeping Vern awake in the middle of the night. Andrew's were quiet, shining at the corner of silently accusing, childish eyes, until those eyes lit up with so much rage that you waited, with sick fascination, for deadly sparks of electrical fire to crackle.

Sperm was the hot wax that sealed the deal. Beecher's, staining Vern's sheets, surprised gasp momentarily silencing the endless flow of righteous indignation, retreating behind stubborn walls of shamed silence. But Beechers's had been too rare a treat, shame and heroin conspiring to make the well barren. There would be no such problem with Andrew. He was a teenager and, once fired up, would give and give until it was Vern begging for reprieve. Vern licked his lips, wondering what teenage jizz tasted like.

He dipped his hand in the blood staining the drum set and licked it. The floodgates had been opened.


	8. Blood

Andrew had shed blood for him, for the mastery of his art form.  
Andrew thought it was music, but it was so much more than that.  
He was a master of his pupils’ lives, every aspect of it.  
He demanded allegiance and purity, like a priest would.  
They usually abstained because of how hard he drove them.  
Andrew had left his sweet girlfriend to be a better, more driven musician.  
He was still a teenage boy, so his libido was sublimated, turned into sweet music.  
He was a better drummer than anyone Vern had ever heard.  
All that untamed sexual energy fed his rendition of “Caravan” and it was a lovely sound.  
Perhaps he could persuade the boy that it was okay to give in to his master every once in a while.  
Perhaps he’d enjoy it, just like Beecher did even if he’d deny it to himself.  
Every time Beecher came with Vern’s cock up his ass, it was a beautiful moment.  
Andrew would be even lovelier, in all his youthful glory and energy.

**Author's Note:**

> More drabbles here..  
> http://oz-wishing-well.livejournal.com/56160.html#comments


End file.
